


Good to You

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn



Series: Post-Canon Collection [4]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: (By me the writer), Aftercare, Apologies to Bob Bob Ricard & Zipcar, Banter, Basically orgasm denial, Baz is a little shit and Simon loves it, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blowjobs, Bollocks appreciation, Car Sex, Date Night, Deepthroating, Discussions of healing from trauma, Driving Kink, Established Relationship, Experimenting in public, Fluff and Smut, Hair Pulling, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Monsterfucking, POV Alternating, Porn with Feelings, Post canon, Public teasing, Semi-Public Sex, Sensual Menu Readings, Slice of Life, Tail Jobs, Thrall - Freeform, squint for plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29435193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn
Summary: Simon has decided to treat Baz to a sophisticated meal for Valentine’s day; but, when they get there, they find they're more interested in each other than the food.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Post-Canon Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211324
Comments: 64
Kudos: 154
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleAprilFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/gifts).



> 🥳 _Happy Valentines Day!_ 🥳
> 
> It’s been so lovely getting to know you over this past month or so. I was happy to see that we like a lot of the same things when it comes to Snowbaz, so I hope I delivered on your prompt of: **post-canon feel-good Snowbaz, with a good ol’ sprinkle of reflections on trauma** ❤️
> 
> This is also my very first smut, and I really hope it’s something you’ll enjoy!
> 
> * * *
> 
> A _massive_ thank you to [Aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias) and [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover), for cheerleading the creation of this monsterfucking buffet, betaing and being all round amazing friends 👌❤️

** Simon**

I’m quite proud of myself for arranging all of this. I put a lot of thought into the best option, and I think I’ve nailed it. (Best option being: a place that Baz has mentioned wanting to try where I can _actually_ afford a meal for two without having to ask for a loan from good old Mr Monzo.)

I settled on a restaurant called Bob Bob Ricard. Which is a bloody awful name, if I’m being honest. I thought Baz was joking when he first mentioned it. I laughed for a good ten minutes before I realised he was being serious. (I guess it costs a lot of money to sound that cheap.)

It certainly _isn’t_ cheap, but Baz deserves the best. (Especially after last Valentine’s—which I completely forgot.) (And the one before that—which I’m pretty sure I spent knees deep in a crate of cider.) I just want to do something nice for him, together in public. I know it means a lot to him.

He’s been an absolute saint with me through all of this to be honest, while I’ve been putting the effort in to get my head right. Baz is often snarky and quick to snap, but he’s patient where it counts. He goes mental at me whenever I try to apologise, but I think he’ll at least let me say thank you, like this—to be good to him, like he is to me.

It’s a big step—for me. Taking responsibility for this whole romantic evening. Trusting that I’ll get things right and that, even if something does go wrong, Baz will still want me afterwards. Trusting Baz to love me, even if I let him down.

I want him to have a drink to celebrate, but I won’t be able to fork out for taxis too and Baz would likely lose his shit if I tried to get him on a tube in one of his expensive suits, so I’m going to drive us. (A Zipcar, mind; Baz loves me but he wouldn’t trust me within an inch of the Jag his dad gifted him.) (I’m not sure I’d trust _myself,_ even if he did let me.)

“Baz?” I call out, giving up on making my bow tie straight. “Come on! You’ve been faffing for an hour. I’m sure you look fine!”

 _“Fine_ isn’t good enough, Snow,” I hear him grouch from the bathroom.

The second I open the door, Baz lobs his hairbrush at me. “My hair isn’t ready yet, go away!”

The brush smacks straight into my chest and I make no move to catch it; I’m too busy staring at Baz. (I’m _always_ too busy staring at Baz.) I can only see him in profile, but I can tell the bastard is smirking as the brush clatters loudly across the floor—he’s bloody gorgeous in this suit and he knows it.

Glossy, bloodred roses twine over the tops of his shoulders and down his lapels, stems circling around his wrist and pockets. I can see that the pattern also flows across his trousers, down the sides of his thighs and wrapping around the ankle. They match the rose I fixed to my own suit—after about twelve attempts. (He surprised me with it at breakfast.)

I hover in the doorway, watching while he wraps half of his hair into a high bun. I love to do this, to watch him create the Great and Luxurious Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I love that this is a part of Baz only I get to see.

“Enjoying the show?” He knows I like to watch, too.

“I’m not watching, I’m waiting. I spend my whole life waiting for you, hurry up.”

It's only as he turns to me fully that I realise he’s wearing a bloodred waistcoat and tie. I’m stunned; it’s not often I see Baz wearing a tie. (Because he’s barely buttoned a shirt past his sternum since he left Watford.)

It’s ridiculous that Baz showing _less_ skin than usual has me _more_ hot and bothered, but it’s so out of the ordinary that my brain supplies a vivid image of me ripping the whole thing open.

He’s still wearing his smirk as he saunters past me, picks up his coat, and walks straight out the door, not even checking to see whether I’m following him. Arrogant git.

* * *

** Baz**

Snow opens the driver’s side door and I assume he’s just being a gentleman, but he climbs in ahead of me, catching me by surprise. Snow enjoys driving, but he absolutely despises doing it in Central London.

“My own personal chauffeur,” I comment as I slide into the passenger’s side. “Well, this is indulgent.”

“Treating you right, aren’t I.” He grins at me widely, clicking his seatbelt on, full set of teeth on display—clearly proud of himself.

I indulge myself even further by leaning over and giving the tip of his nose a kiss, relishing in the way he blushes and blusters afterwards as he puts the car into gear and pulls away.

He’s smiling as he puts the radio on, resting his hand on my thigh in between changing gears. I take pleasure in staring at him under the guise of being invested in the story he’s telling me about his colleague who enjoyed his take on the recipe she gave him last week.

I love watching Snow drive. I don’t quite think he’s worked it out yet, how watching him handling a vehicle makes me feel. His strong, capable grasp of the gear stick, the grunts and growls he makes when the idiots of London cut him up or forget to indicate—well, it’s practically foreplay.

I’m also incredibly glad that the numpty chose to forego his winter coat. The suit fits him too well; the material stretches over his biceps as he pushes the base of his palm flat against the top of the steering wheel, thick fingers splayed as he moves it in a circular motion to turn the corner.

Crowley, I just want to run my hands all over him.

Snow snaps me out of my lewd thoughts by mumbling _"_ _next left”_ to himself and I realise that, instead of just using the satnav and therefore spoiling the surprise for me, he’s chosen to memorise the route. It’s so ridiculously thoughtful and entirely Simon-like that I have to lean over in my chair and kiss him on the cheek.

I’m embarrassing myself but, since I’m rewarded with another grin, I know that it’s worth it. I want Snow to know that I appreciate all the ways in which he’s being so good to me tonight.

I’m turned on and feeling very soppy and watching him flick the indicator is almost too much for my delicate sensibilities, so I turn to look out the window at Regent Street, trying to guess where we’re going.

He parks up outside of Golden Square and I’m still none the wiser.

“We’re here!” His voice is much too loud and strained. He must be nervous that I won’t like the place.

I climb out and walk over to him as he locks the Zipcar through his app, rubbing at the back of his neck and smiling shyly.

I pull on his arm and take his hand; it’s a bit sweaty. Definitely nervous then. “Lead the way, love.”

* * *

** Simon**

I’m watching Baz’s face for an indication of whether I’ve done a decent job at choosing or not. His eyes are wide, but I can’t tell if that’s a good thing. He seems to be a little stunned. (That’s good, right?)

Baz gives my hand a squeeze before saying, “You remembered,” very softly. He turns and gives me a grin and I match it, happy he’s happy.

I reach for the door and hold it open for him, like a perfect gentleman. I’m feeling a little cheeky though, so I give him a small sarcastic bow as he passes and he’s not quick enough to stifle his loud laugh. A few people turn at the noise and he smacks me lightly on the arm as I join him in the queue.

Everything is just as blue and gold and grand as I remember from the website, and I think the air actually smells of vanilla. (There’s a sign of a classy establishment if I’ve ever smelled one.)

Baz takes hold of my hand while we wait for a couple in front of us to be seated. I glance over at him—in what I hope is a discreet way—and see he’s smiling softly as he looks around.

Driving, check. Restaurant, check. Two-nil to Simon.

When it’s our turn I actually manage to give this flashy looking dude—dressed in a matching blue and gold suit, of course—at the entry desk the details of my booking with barely an “um” in sight. Sounds small, but it’s definitely a step or two up from not being able to look the pizza guy in the eye.

He takes Baz’s coat and leads us through the main area which has clearly undergone a Valentines Day re-decoration effort. (An upscale one, not the type where there's blow-up googly-eyed hearts with _i wuv u!_ written across the front.) The tables now have long cloths draped over them, covering up the marble tops. (You know a restaurant is more fancy than it needs to be if they’re _choosing_ to cover up bloody marble.)

He stops at the exact booth that I requested, nestled nicely in the corner.

Baz understands immediately why I’ve chosen this particular table and sits with his back towards the rest of the restaurant. (He’s good at controlling his fangs these days, but the more sloshed he gets, the less he’s able to keep them… well, wherever they go.) I give my tail a discreet shift—even when it's invisible, it still likes to get in the way—and follow him into the booth.

“Well, this is cosy,” Baz says to me as I settle in. He’s still smiling. I don’t think he’s stopped since we walked in. (Three-nil to Simon.)

“Yeah. Makes a change from just buying you a Greggs pasty, don’t it.”

“I’ll take you at your pasty or your Michelin star, Snow.”

I blush along with my own smile, because it’s all just a little embarrassing really—he knows I love him, but this whole evening feels like a huge, flashing neon sign and it makes me feel a little… exposed. 

_(It’s just Baz, Simon. You don’t need to hide from him.)_

* * *

** Baz**

This restaurant is the very definition of opulent, ornate. The décor is seductive, and it’s only adding to my mood.

We’re sitting in a gilded banquette with high-backed leather seating. Gold rails adorn the tops with thick curtains you can use to hide yourselves away from prying eyes. Marble surrounds us at every turn, but it doesn’t feel cold, it feels luxurious.

All of the employees are wearing dinner jackets of turquoise and a garish shade of coral—but it all works. It’s exquisite. Exactly what I want from a restaurant. And Snow _knows_ that. He chose this for me.

Simon must have saved for months to be able to afford to take me here.

It’s been a long few years, but this whole evening is indicative of how far Snow’s actually come. The planning, the taking the lead, the way he’s carrying himself—I’m finding it all incredibly sexy.

His hair is reflecting the light from the chandeliers that are hanging from the Venetian-mirrored ceiling, and I’m barely listening to a word the host is saying; all I can think is that this confidence looks so fucking good on Simon that I don't want him to wear anything else right now.

I miss the explanation of the menu, but I do catch the description of the “Press for Champagne” button located on the wall next to us. The host tells us our waiter will be along shortly and leaves us with a drink menu.

I don’t need it. I waste no time in pressing the button for champagne, delighting as Snow narrows his eyes at me.

“What?”

“You’re having champagne,” he accuses.

I raise my eyebrow at him. I know exactly what he’s getting at. “Astute tonight, aren’t you Snow.”

“Champagne makes you randy.”

I smirk a little and remain purposefully silent for a few seconds, just holding his gaze. “Well, it _is_ the appropriate holiday for it.”

“Hmm,” he hums. His eyes offer a lot more about what he’s thinking, as he drags them down my—covered, for once—chest. (Can’t become too predictable.)

I lean forward and let the tips of my fingers trail lightly over the back of his hand. 

He booked this place, so there’s no way he didn’t already know that it’s famous for its champagne call-buttons. Snow likes to pretend he’s innocent and naïve—it’s been a long time since he’s been anything but.

* * *

** Simon**

“Still no menu. I bet they’ll make us wait at least an hour so you can press that button of yours a few more times.”

Baz lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Anticipation is part of the pleasure.”

“Of posh food?”

“Of any activity,” he practically purrs at me over his glass, giving me a wink.

I laugh at that, and he joins in. It’s nice, being able to joke about sex with Baz. I used to clam up and stumble, but it’s just so easy with him now. Well, most days. When my head lets me believe he wants me. We’ve been pushing our own boundaries a lot lately, seeing what kind of things we like outside of the usual. (If you can really call a vampire and a man with dragon parts having sex _usual.)_

We’re good at being patient with each other about things like that. And Baz has learnt when I want something but I’m too shy… when he needs to give me just a little push to let go.

“Barely one sip and you’re already begging for it,” I tease.

 _“_ It’s not the champagne, Snow, it’s you.”

“Suppose I scrub up well.”

He runs his fingers over my hand again; it seems we’re no longer joking.

“You do. But everything you’re doing for me this evening means a lot to me, Simon. Thank you.” 

I shift my foot forward and let it drag along the side of his own. An open, vulnerable compliment—Baz has come a long way, too.

I smile at him. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

I can’t make sense of this Valentine’s menu. There’s a fair few things I have no idea how to bloody pronounce, most of it is expensive, and none of it will be big enough portion sizes, I’m sure. There’s plenty of vodka shot options, though.

“Anything taking your interest?” Baz asks me.

I shrug in response. “Can’t even pronounce the Russian starters, let alone understand what the mains are.”

“Pelmini,” Baz says, and the _‘L’_ rolls off his tongue in a way that has my head snapping up. He smirks at me slightly. “The first one. They’re Russian dumplings.”

“Right.” I swallow heavily against my bow tie and his eyes follow the movement.

“Next is Golubtsy.” More rolling letters— _‘S’_ , this time. Baz goes on to describe what they are, but I definitely blink out. His words are slow and dripping in what can only be described as his Bedroom Voice.

He continues reading the menu out loud to me; promises of seared specialties, classics covered in cream, truffles, caviar... He hits the _‘T’_ hard on the Russian words, the _‘S’_ clinging to his lips for the English descriptions.

He’s treating me to some sort of sensual menu reading, and it has me all eager and shivery, although I’m not sure what for. Baz? The food? (Definitely both.)

When it seems he’s at the end he puts his menu down and states, simply, “I think I’ll have the _large_ steak tartare to start,” before looking up at me innocently. “There’s nothing I like more than speciality meat.”

He’s winding me up on purpose, and of course it’s working. 

“Hmm.” I shift forward, running my fingers over his forearm. “How hungry are you?”

He raises his eyebrow at me as he says, _“Very,”_ and I feel goosebumps spread across my cheeks and run down my back.

No one ever expects how crude Baz actually is when you give him the chance, he’s worse than me inside his own head. (I love it, it makes me so hot for him.)

I turn my focus back to my menu. I’d like nothing more than to get my hands on Baz right now, but this is supposed to be an evening of wining and dining, not sex in a restaurant toilet.

When Cedric—our waiter—comes back, I decide to reel off both of our orders to him, because I’ve seen it done in movies and it seems like the romantic thing to do.

I’ve barely made it through our starter, however, when I realise Baz is running his foot up along the inside of my calf. I shoot him a warning look, which I'm sure is undercut by the blush I can feel spreading across my nose and the grin I’m failing to smother.

I try to continue our order, but I falter a little on our shared main and sides, losing my concentration bit by bit as he inches higher and higher up my thigh.

I wait him out for a few more seconds, giving the waiter our side orders with a shaky voice before grabbing his encroaching foot, sliding my hand up his trouser leg and giving him a good pinch. He jerks away from me with a yelp and I laugh as the waiter jumps and turns to look at him in shock.

I don’t think Baz has enough blood in him to blush, but he’s definitely not composed and smirking anymore, the wanker.

Baz apologises, and Cedric—like the professional he is—ignores the whole thing entirely, says, “very good Sirs,” and gets the hell away from us.

“You’re a menace,” Baz hisses at me, fighting back a smile.

 _“Me?_ You’re the one trying to play footsie at the table.” I don’t bother fighting my own grin.

“That doesn’t sound like me at all, Snow.” The git just picks up his glass, hiding his smirk with it; eyes full of fucking trouble. 

I know that if we were at home I would have already pinned him down and I’d be well on my way to making him beg by now.

I can’t get enough of Baz—I never could, apparently, but as soon as I let myself be touched by him, I was floored by _want._

I could never get as deep into Baz as I really wanted—I was never _close_ enough. I could never kiss him hard enough, or gently enough. I just wanted more. More and more and _more._ Every day. Sometimes three or four times a day. We barely left my room for a week and still, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

Two years on and I’m still bursting with need for him half the time.

He seems to be thinking the same thing if the intense eye contact is anything to go by. He opens his mouth slightly and lets his fangs slip down to push against his bottom lip.

“Baz,” I warn.

Some days I can’t believe I ever doubted Baz wanted me. If that ever happens again, I'll just look back at this moment specifically, where he's running his finger over the rim of his glass, smirking slightly before licking across one fang with the tip of his tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut against the resulting shiver that runs through my traitorous body, clearly remembering the last time he bit me.

“We won’t make it through dinner if you don’t stop,” I tell him.

He’s quiet for a second or two before he says, “I hear the beef Wellington is exceptional here. I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I let you miss it.”

He’s smiling at me softly when I eventually open my eyes.

Merlin, I love him.

* * *

** Baz**

That definitely went even better than planned. Simon looks like he’d love nothing more than to reach over the table and climb on top of me. Well, you and me both, love; but at least now I’m not alone.

I love to poke at Snow. I’ve _always_ loved to poke at him, to watch him get flustered because of me, to see him so affected by me that he can’t help but go off. I suppose nowadays, when he goes off, it’s much more pleasurable for the both of us.

He’s watching me, equal parts lust and concern, I think. He’s worried it's the champagne, but I've been wanting him since the second his hand grasped the gear stick of that awful Zipcar. (Or, more accurately, since I was fifteen.) (Plus, it’s not like I need the drink to give me the audacity, I have plenty of that on a normal day.)

It took everything I had in me not to tell him to pull over so I could mount him right there, but I was hardly going to debase myself in a fucking Toyota Prius. (That would ruin the air of sophistication that I work hard to maintain.) (Although we all know I would ruin myself in a thousand different ways for one Simon Snow.)

Once the starters arrive, Snow turns his lustful expression to the food instead and I tell myself it’s silly to feel jealous.

I know I should be focusing on the meal—the steak tartare really _is_ delicious—but all this show of self-assurance has done is make me crave his heat, the smell of him close to me, the taste and sounds of his mouth captured by my own.

I want to get him home and walk my fingers up the steps of his spine and watch as his wings shudder. He only admitted to me last night how much he loves that. (I love it, too.)

Now that we’re exploring, I know he thinks about sex a lot. 

On bold nights, he’ll tell me about his thoughts in detail, but sometimes he’s still a little shy. He was always so shameless and rash when we were growing up that it took me a long time to understand how nervous he was about this stuff. I know now it’s not a lack of desire, it’s the opposite; he wants me so much—he _loves_ me so much—that he worries he’ll disappoint me, as if he ever could.

That’s fine though, I have enough boldness for the both of us.

My eyes stray back to Snow, sitting across from me, delicious and entirely untouchable. It feels like the ultimate tease... and suddenly I have an idea.

* * *

** Simon**

“Simon,” Baz says, in a voice so thick and velvety that I have no choice but to look up at him straight away.

A familiar feeling spreads over me as I meet his eyes; the restaurant, the table, the noise fading away...

**_Pay attention, Simon._ **

The fork slips out of my hand and clatters onto my plate, food completely forgotten with my overwhelming _need_ to have my eyes on Baz—to really _see_ him. His eyes are intensely dark, his hair shiny, the roses on his suit shimmering in the ceiling lights…

**_Be good for me._ **

I immediately lean forward, not entirely of my own accord but because everything in me wants to be _closer_ to him. It’s his thrall. It always feels like dissolving into him—or like I’d do literally anything I could to be able to dissolve into him. _(I just want to be good for him.)_

I could snap out of it, if I really wanted to. (I don’t.) I can always stop him. (I never do.) He can be stronger with his thrall than this, I’m certain, but he never lets himself go too far. (I wish he would.)

**_Relax._ **

I feel the tension bleed out of me as his hand settles against my knee, squeezing. The touch gives me chills, as if I’m feeling his cool palm against my bare skin.

I distantly notice Baz swirling his champagne glass and I realise that it’s not his hand at all, it just _feels_ like it is.

I’m confused for a long minute as his palm slides higher up my thigh, a second hand making its way up my other leg. And then I understand—he’s projecting the sensations, making me believe that the pressure I’m feeling is real. 

Shadows are sliding slowly against me under my trousers. It feels like skin against skin; palms rubbing through the hairs on my thighs, sending chills up and down my spine. I think I’m breathing heavy but it’s difficult to concentrate on anything other than Baz and what he’s doing to me.

**_You have to be quiet, Simon._ **

My fists clench and I bite down hard on my lip to stifle any sounds when his hands reach all the way up, fingertip-like sensations stroking down the creases of my hips. I couldn’t care less if people heard me right now, but Baz needs me to be quiet. _(I have to be quiet for him.)_

**_You’re being so good for me._ **

I can feel my tail lashing about, trying to grab onto Baz’s wrist like it usually would if he was touching me here. It settles around his ankle instead, squeezing tightly. Baz looks as smug as anything. _(I’m making him happy. That’s good. I want to make him happy.)_

Shadow-fingers slide over my groin. One hand presses down against my cock, the other sliding to cup my balls, and I know I whimper out loud.

This shouldn’t be erotic; he’s not even _actually_ touching me. But it’s just the right amount of pressure, and far too much eye contact and my breath is embarrassingly short and I’m most definitely hard and way too close to the edge.

I open my mouth to say something, but it gets caught in my throat as the shadow-hand on my cock presses slightly harder against me. (What would I even say anyway?) ( _“Move”_ comes to mind, but I’m not sure if I want him to move away from or against me.)

Any hope for words is completely lost when Baz opens his mouth slightly and runs his tongue over the very tip of a fang, just like earlier.

My whole body shivers. Yeah, I definitely want him to move against me...

“Everything okay with your meal?”

The voice starts out distant, but the second Baz realises it’s the waiter, sounds floods back in like I’ve just resurfaced from being under water. I know Baz answers him, but I’m feeling too dazed to do more than smile. I think I’m swaying slightly.

Baz reaches over to give my fist a squeeze—with his actual hand this time. “Simon?” he asks, voice soft.

“That was bloody wicked,” I blurt out in a rush. (It’s embarrassing how I can never control my words after I’ve been under his thrall.)

I twine my fingers with his as he laughs a little maniacally—I can tell it’s full of relief. 

I think Baz’s thrall is a lot stronger than he lets me see. I think he holds back whenever he uses it. I wish he wouldn’t—I like emptying my brain of everything but Baz. And I definitely like it when he takes control when we have sex. It happens quite a lot, so he _knows_ I’m more than willing to please with abandon.

Surely a full thrall would just be a more intense version of that? (Which would be incredible.) 

It’s pretty surreal going back to our starters after that, but we do. Me, trying to stifle my erection, a little wobbly in the aftermath, and Baz, looking like he does this all the bloody time.

He’s so unflappable, completely in control and composed. He always is, until I start touching him.

And then I get an idea. Baz clearly doesn’t expect me to be brave enough to retaliate; so, as he’s telling me about his plans for the game on Sunday, I nod and smile and plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


	2. Chapter 2

** Baz**

I decide to stop teasing and let Snow get on with eating; he’s going to need the energy for what I have planned for later. It’s hungry work when we’re all fired up and he’s not wrong, champagne _does_ make me randy.

Snow seems a little off with the fairies while we talk, but he certainly snaps back to attention the second he lays eyes on our main. The meant-for-two beef Wellington arrives with the restaurant logo stamped into the pastry topping and it’s exactly the kind of nonsense Snow goes wild for. 

He insists that _he_ has to cut the Wellington and serve me my slice, because it’s his treat, and I watch indulgently as he butchers the whole thing; telling me his every last thought about the sides that are surrounding us and the gravy he can’t take his eyes off of.

He orders his token glass of champagne—because I’ll be chauffeured home, too—and we share a toast to how far we’ve come; to growth and confidence and love. (Because apparently we’re sappy now and say the important stuff out loud—no more things left poetically unsaid.)

He’s cracking awful jokes and grinning and so am I—I can’t stop. I love it when he’s like this, so full of life. I feel so lucky.

Eventually though he becomes quiet and I assume it’s because he’s concentrating on the food, until I glance up at him.

I watch as his eyes dart all around the restaurant, leaning forward a little to get a better look at the parts he can’t readily see. I think he actually believes he’s being inconspicuous, as if Snow has ever managed to be discreet in his life.

I hide a smile and decide to go back to my meal. I don’t know what he’s planning, but if he’s going to go for it, he had better learn to be less obvious than this.

I’m just tucking into another slice of meat when I feel something sliding against my calf. At first I think it must be Snow’s foot, but it’s pointed and slightly rough—that blasted tail of his, it’s always had a mind of its own.

I glance up at Snow, ready to tease him for it, but he’s already watching me; eyes full of fire as his tail continues its way up my leg.

 _Oh._ I see.

So this is how he’s decided to throw me off, to prove he can get to me too. (The worst part is, he’s right. I adore Simon’s dragon parts.) ( _Especially_ that pesky tail.)

He’s not slow and sultry like I was; Snow’s never been patient, and he wastes no time in progressing straight to my crotch. It makes no difference though; the second he presses against me, I have to squeeze my lips together tightly to make sure the whimper I’m trying to swallow down doesn’t make its way out anyway.

I cough a little, but I’m not fooling him—the smirk on his face says he knows exactly what he’s doing to me, how the slide of his tail is lighting me up like a match

It all feels too good, and if it wasn’t for the loud laughter from the table behind me I’d most certainly have forgotten where I was by now. I shuffle forward a little so my lap is covered with the tablecloth. (His tail might be invisible, but my erection certainly is not.)

* * *

** Simon**

I watch Baz’s eyelashes flutter as my tail rubs against the head of his cock through his trousers, and I can’t help the grin that takes over my whole face. I finally get why Baz was taking so much enjoyment out of teasing me like this earlier—Baz Pitch, fighting for composure in front of all these people, entirely at my mercy; now _this_ is fun. 

He’s definitely enjoying himself, too, if the fierce eye contact he’s trying to give me is anything to go by. I wonder how far I can take it, how much of my tail against him he’ll want.

We both still get a little insecure about our _extra parts_ sometimes—me more than Baz, to be honest. But that’s normal, I think; I’m only human, after all. (Sort of.) (Not sure I can claim “only human” when the spade of my tail is currently caressing Baz’s balls, but I think the point still stands.)

All it takes is one full body shudder from Baz and I’m feeling a bit more brave. I have my tail rub against his cock again—pressing harder this time—and Baz’s mouth drops open silently, his brow crinkling in pleasure.

Baz always works so hard to stay in control, but he’s letting me undo him right here like a pretty little bow.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel good.

* * *

** Baz**

Foolishly, I thought maybe I could out-tease Simon tonight, but I should have known he wouldn’t let me get off easy. Simon Snow has never backed down from my challenges. (And I’m delighted he isn’t stopping now.)

The spade of Snow’s tail is slightly rough on parts of its surface, and it feels divine as it slides over my clothed cock. I clench my teeth to ensure I don’t produce a horribly debauched sound in front of all these people as his tail rubs against my frenulum, making my toes curl.

Simon—the absolute nightmare—just picks up his fork and scoops a bit of food into his mouth, as if he isn’t literally taking me apart with his tail in the middle of a Michelin starred restaurant. (He’s been practicing his poker face for game nights and clearly he’s now using it for evil.)

I don’t miss how turned on he is by all of this, though; the dark blush spreading over his cheeks is very familiar. I hear his heart rate spike as his tail moves faster against me, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut because it’s all too much. _Crowley._

I feel his tail slip under my waistcoat, trying to make its way down into my trousers. I know he’s just teasing, but all of a sudden it’s impossible to think clearly; to remember that we’re in a crowded restaurant and the waiters will certainly notice that my food is going untouched.

I don’t care. I just want to crawl over there and paint his body with my lips, rock against him like his tail is rocking against me, feel his breath ghosting over my skin…

Enough of this, I need _more._

So, I reach under the tablecloth, open my belt and begin to work open my trousers.

Snow’s eyebrows fly up in response. “People might see,” he whispers, “are you sure?”

I consider playing a role, something cliché, like we’re in a movie: _“Good.” “Let them.” “I want them to.”_ But in the end, I choose to be myself—condescending and a bit contrary.

I raise an eyebrow. “See what?”

* * *

** Simon **

Baz raises his eyebrow at me, smirking like he couldn’t give a single fuck if all these people knew he’s effectively just asked for a tail-job. 

It’s so like Baz—so self-assured and cocky and smug—that if I wasn’t hard before, I’m definitely hard now.

I’m meant to be getting under _his_ skin, getting my own back for all his bloody teasing, so I give him a nod. I can be reckless too.

I take a quick glance around the restaurant, but no one seems to be paying us any mind; too wrapped up in their own happiness tonight—just like we are, I guess.

For all his arrogance, the second that my tail slides against Baz’s bare cock, his head falls back against his seat with a soft _clunk_. He’s shaking with the effort of keeping quiet.

He’s warm here now, and wet from his pre-cum. I have the softer part of my spade slide along that bit just underneath his head that I know he goes wild for, and I watch as Baz leans forward again to clutch onto the table as if it will help him keep a grip on his composure.

That won't do. I want to watch him come undone.

* * *

** Baz**

Snow juts his jaw forward and I know I’m in for it.

I’m masochistic though, so of course I maintain eye contact as his tail threads further into my boxers and wraps itself around me loosely. I savour how hard I have to work to keep quiet, to keep what we’re doing a secret.

 _Hell and harpies, this feels good._ Why have we never done this before? The risk. The tail. The eye contact. It’s all too much in the best possible way.

When Snow starts moving against me, I barely contain the pleasure trying to work its way out of my throat. I’m shuddering and squirming, gripping the table in an effort to not lose myself completely to the blissful sensation, to the knowledge that this is Simon’s _tail_ working over me.

He gives me one, long slow tug and I squeeze my hands too hard in my effort to keep quiet. I hear the marble crack slightly—too faint for Snow’s ears, I’m sure—but I decide I’ll have to think about that later as he continues dragging me to an early grave.

His length moves against mine faster now, the soft section of spade rubbing rhythmically over the head of my cock, smearing my pre-cum. He tightens his grip and I inadvertently let out a harsh breath that may as well have been a scream after all of my stifling.

The bastard’s grinning at me like he’s just won at Mario Kart and I let out a low moan over the very idea that he’s completely shattered the last shred of my control. Nothing else can break me like Simon’s touch.

* * *

** Simon**

All of Baz’s breath leaves his chest in a rush of _“Simon”_ and even though no one’s looking, I’m worried it’s going to be hard to keep this a secret for much longer.

I turn my attention away from what my tail is doing for a second to watch for waiters, but I accidentally poke Baz roughly with the tip of my spade and he kicks me involuntarily under the table. It catches me so off guard that _I’m_ the one who actually cries out. Loudly.

Baz starts laughing uncontrollably and after a few seconds of shock, I join him too.

Well, people are definitely looking at us now.

Once we’ve caught our breath, I consider continuing and making him cum fully, right here in his pants. But it’s Valentines Day—I’d rather be able to hear his cries as I take him apart properly at home.

Yeah, I’ll make us both wait for it. All that anticipation will make it better, just like he said.

Baz seems to have come to the same conclusion. He slides his wand out of his sleeve—a little gracelessly—and slips it under the tablecloth to spell himself clean and tidy. (It takes him two tries and I feel pretty smug about it.)

Then he leans forward to spell our food hot again—I knew there was a reason I loved him—and I’m just about to go back to eating when I see him poke his wand against the edge of the table, catching the end of another whispered spell—something that sounds suspiciously like **_Quick fix._ **

“Did you break the table?”

“What?” His response is too quick, his eyes snapping to mine.

“Were you so turned on that you _cracked marble?”_ I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.

He gives me a familiar sneer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

(That means yes.)

Merlin. I did that to him. Me. Tail having, magic lacking, ‘absolute numpty’ me.

I try to raise my eyebrow at him (it’s nowhere near as practised as Baz’s). “I think you do.”

“I was having a perfectly sophisticated dinner until you decided to debauch me, Snow,” he drolls, picking up his fork. “I’d like to get back to it.”

He winks at me before going back to his carrots.

* * *

** Baz**

Being with Simon still feels like a dream sometimes, but there’s no way I could have ever made this up. The loving glances, the soft touches, the flirting—the semi-public sex we’ve apparently decided to engage in. All of this build-up is going to pay off splendidly, and I’m desperate to get home… 

The waiter wanders over to take our plates and asks whether we want dessert and a hasty _“No!”_ tumbles from between my lips before I can stop it.

He and Snow both look at me, a little shocked. I clear my throat and try to claw back some of the dignity I was raised with.

“No, thank you. We’re too full—the Wellington was simply delicious. Please could you bring the bill?”

He leaves with a “Certainly, Sir,” and I’m left to face the wrath of Snow for coming in between him and whatever he had his eye on. He’s livid at me, I can see it in his face. (It’s not helping; his anger has always turned me on. I’ve always been itching to make him brawl with me.)

“I wanted blueberry meringue, Baz.”

“I will buy you as many meringues as you’d like tomorrow,” I tell him, a little exasperated. (Crowley, I’d cover my bloody self in meringue at this point.) (Actually, I think he’d like that.)

“I don’t see why I can’t just eat it now?”

“Because I was thinking we’d have _dessert_ at home,” I say, not un-suggestively.

He lowers his brows as he mulls over my response. I see it in eyes when he finally catches my drift.

_“Oh.”_

“Yes.”

“Because we…”

“Right.”

“Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting on and kudos’ing my very first smut fic—I was real nervous and you’ve all been so lovely! ❤️
> 
> And a _massive_ thank you once again to [Aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias) and [Sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover), for cheerleading the creation of this monsterfucking buffet, betaing and being all round amazing friends 👌❤️

** Baz**

I make the effort to hang back a little as Snow walks us down a random side road, so I can get a good look at his arse in those trousers. I’ll never tire of Simon in a suit. It’s such a novelty, given how he’d rather wear chinos, even when we’re meant to dress up.

He’s made such an effort for me this evening. It took us a long time to get here, but my life really is filled with love. So much more than fifteen year-old me ever thought possible.

Eventually Snow stops and unlocks a car— _another_ bloody Prius—with his app and climbs in. I can see him fumbling around, trying to figure out how to shuffle the seat forward from its previous settings as I slide into the passenger side. I want to push him back against the shitty leather and take advantage of the space, say thank you properly for everything he’s done for me tonight. 

_Keep it in your pants, Basil. No more semi-public sexcapades._

He curses and gives up, his growl travelling up my spine. I try to hold myself back, I really do, but Simon’s reaching over me to unlock the glove box and take out the car keys, and his elbow is dangerously close to brushing against my crotch, and I decide that I cannot wait until I get home to touch him properly.

I follow him as he leans back into his chair, climbing over the gear stick and settling myself in his lap, knees trapping his thighs—entirely grateful that the numpty lost his battle with the car seat.

“Baz, what are you–”

I cut him off with a deep kiss that should give him every indication of exactly _what I’m doing._

I pull back to raise my eyebrow at him, full smirk on display, and he chuckles a little, the fog from his breath brushing across my lips in the frigid February air. (Mouth breather.)

I consider telling Simon to turn the heating on as he tugs off my tie, but he’s pulling me back to him and tilting his chin in just the right way, tongue brushing against my lower lip, and I realise it doesn’t matter—I have a feeling we’ll be steaming up the windows all on our own.

We kiss fiercely for a while; lips against jaws, necks, collarbones. His mouth on my skin, again and again. It’s divine. I lay my own kisses against his body in worship; freckles, moles, my hands tangling in his curls.

He slides his own hands over my stomach, undoing my waistcoat before threading his fingers through the gaps in my shirt, running the tips lightly over my skin and making my muscles clench. I feel the nightmare’s smug grin as he presses another kiss to my jaw and I decide to fight back.

I move to bite his lip harshly before slowly grinding my hips down onto his. He lets out a lovely whimper in surprise and I make sure to press my open lips against his to catch his panting, so I can feel the sweet heat of his breath in my mouth. I feel high on it.

I roll my hips in a circle against him, feeling his groan rumble through my own chest and all I can think is: _he’s so alive._ And _I_ feel alive right now, under his hands, listening to him gasp my name into the small space between us when I press down just right.

And all of a sudden, this isn’t enough anymore.

“Back seat,” I tell him, voice firm even though I’m breathing heavy, “now.”

(Crowley. The first time Simon and I have sex in a car, it’s going to be in a bloody Toyota Prius _—that I don’t even own._ What have I become?)

I have the foresight to move both car seats all the way forward before I get out to join him.

* * *

** Simon**

Baz gives my arse a slap as I’m bent over, crawling through the door into the back of the car. I’m taken by surprise at first, and then the shock fades as I hear his chuckling from behind me and I join in, too. I turn around to catch a glimpse of his playful expression in the light of the nearby lamppost.

I love when Baz is like this, loose and having fun. I love that I get to see him like this, that he lets me be a part of it. Most people just see Baz’s stiff upper lip, they don’t understand that he’s jokey and mischievous… and of course how that extends to him being really fucking great in the sack.

I’m reaching for him before he’s even fully inside the car, kissing him so hungrily that he literally has to give me a shove to get me to let go, just so he can pull the door closed. I lose my balance and hit my head off the passenger side headrest, shouting “Fuck me!” so loudly that it probably fills the whole street, let alone the car.

We catch eyes for a second or two before bursting into laughter, Baz gasping, “Yes, that’s the point, but maybe don’t tell the whole of London,” as he tries to catch his breath.

I think of how embarrassed I would have been this time last year, but I don’t feel anything other than happiness right now, watching Baz’s eyes scrunch up in delight. 

For so long, I was terrified that I’d be a right fumbling idiot in bed—and don’t get me wrong, I bloody well can be—but even when I am, Baz makes it feel easy. We laugh about it and then just carry on.

I press my fingers against what is sure to be a bruise (and a nice little reminder, if you ask me), when Baz leans forward to brush a light kiss against the same spot. It’s so fucking soft that I have no other option but to tackle him as best I can against the opposite car door to snog his face off. (Cradling his head mind, one injury is enough for one night.)

I’m kissing his neck and pulling him with me as I settle sideways into the seat behind the passenger side. The strands of hair that frame Baz’s face caress my cheeks as he gets up on his knees to lean over me and I feel so full of love and _want_ and happiness that I might just bloody burst.

“I fucking love you, Baz.” It comes out a little harsh given how pent up I am, but the sentiment’s still there.

Baz’s resulting laugh is more breath streaming across my lips than actual sound, but he pulls back to meet me with sparkling eyes before he says, “I love you too, my barbarian.” 

I try to kiss along his jaw in response, but I’m grinning too much and I end up scraping my teeth along his skin instead. Baz still seems to be into it though, if his full body shiver is anything to go by.

He moves quickly then, kissing me harshly on the mouth and sliding his hands under my arse. Before I have time to get too excited about it, he’s pulling me roughly, practically manhandling my body until I’m lying down, nestling himself in between my legs as best he can given we’re crammed into the back of a bloody 5-seater Prius.

Merlin. I always forget just how strong Baz is until he gets all worked up in bed and uses it to manoeuvre me any which way he wants. (I fucking love it.)

He brushes our noses together as he whispers, “Can I?”

“ _Here?”_

“Yes.” He pulls back to look at me properly. “Don’t you want me to?”

Well it’s more: _is there enough room?_ And: _Are you sure you want to do this in a bloody hire car?_

“Well. _Obviously_ yes, but I–”

“Right then,” he mutters, getting to work on my belt, tugging and brushing against my erection with every move of his fingers. Siegfried and Roy, it’s been a while since he’s been _this_ eager.

* * *

** Baz**

“Is this the champagne talking?” my gorgeous moron asks me.

“Crowley, Snow. No. Can’t a man fellate his partner without accusations anymore?”

Snow starts coughing and I close my eyes in an attempt to starve off rolling them. Snow hates it when I use the “proper words” for things; they still make him incredibly embarrassed, even though we’ve been having sex for almost two years now.

He’s a total disaster. And I find it intoxicating.

I crawl back up to his face to give him a deep kiss; trying to pull him back out of that bumbling head of his and back into this moment, where I’d love nothing more than to swirl my tongue around his cock.

Just as he’s suitably riled up again—biting my bottom lip in that way he does when he wants to slip me the tongue—I try a different route.

“Let me be good to you, too,” I murmur into his mouth. He whimpers a little, so I carry on, “I want to taste you.”

(What I really want is for him to ride my face, but I don’t think there’s room in this bloody Prius.) _(Don’t Zipcar own any other types of cars?)_

He breathes out shakily and nods his head quickly. I direct my attention to his neck for a minute or two, just to tease—just to make sure he’s worked up enough that his brain won’t slip off again—and I’m rewarded by his thundering pulse against my tongue.

I get lost in his heartbeat when it’s racing like this. My mouth pools with saliva as memories of nights spent lapping at bite marks flood my mind.

This isn’t the time for biting though, not yet—even though he’s already baring his neck to me in offering. I swallow heavily and force myself to continue down his body; there’s other things I want to taste right now.

I shuffle back down his lap as best as I can. I can’t look too attractive with my back hunched like this, but Snow doesn’t seem to care, if the squirming in his seat and the hands tugging at my hair are any indication. (I’m surprised he hasn’t hacked away at my bun already, in all honesty. Snow has no respect when it comes to my hair care.)

I don’t take my eyes off his as I slide my hands up his inner thighs slowly, mapping out the places where I projected my thrall to touch him earlier. His lids are low with desire, just like then, but his eyes are fiery in comparison; alert, dilated, hungry. Snow loves being under my thrall, but I prefer him like this, looking like he’s ready for a fight.

I press my face against his crotch and kiss him through the fabric as I work on undoing his button, biting his thigh just below the crease with my teeth as I undo his zip. 

He lifts his hips to get his trousers and boxers down properly and I have a brief thought that I probably should have spelled the backseats clean, but there’s nothing for it now, not when Simon is tugging me closer to his cock by my bun.

I decide that sucking him off while I’m bent over like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame is something I cannot abide by, so I instruct him to move until he’s sitting properly in the seat and I settle myself onto all fours beside him. (Making sure to arch my back a little. I know Snow can’t get enough of my arse.)

I look up at him as best I can from the corners of my eyes and wait until I have full eye contact before I sink my mouth down into him.

* * *

** Simon**

Baz has his mouth all over my balls and I can’t control the whines slipping from my own mouth. I know he loves it when I’m vocal, and this night is for him, after all—even if I’m currently the one getting a top tier blowie—so I don’t try to stop myself.

Baz is exceptionally goal-orientated and he’s made it his personal mission to learn exactly what I like over the past year or so. I’m very sensitive around my bollocks—especially the crease—so of course Baz is spending a long time caressing and licking me there gently. He’s so good to me. I love him so much in this moment that my chest feels tight.

(Merlin. Having my balls licked is probably a pretty weird thing for me to get sentimental over, but there it is.)

I could watch his head move around down there all day, my fingertips against his shiny hair. I slide my hand far enough back to slip his hair bobble out completely—not that it’s doing much at this point—so I can wrap my fingers through the strands properly, and Baz stops for a second to glare up at me from below.

I give him my cheekiest grin along with a trademark shrug. He’ll spend at least half an hour complaining about the knots in his hair later, but I know he loves it too. It’s one of the only markers I can leave on him, given his super-healing—a tangled mess of _Simon was here._

He rolls his eyes but redoubles his efforts—tongue running up the most prominent vein of my shaft—and any thoughts of taunting him further fly out the slowly steaming up window.

He wraps his mouth around my head and sucks rhymically while that tongue of his gets back to work—on my slit this time—and I pray there’s no passersby to hear how loud my groans are. I know this is the point when he’d be looking up at me all wet-lipped and wide-eyed—the picture of fake innocence—if we were in our usual blowie positioning, and the memories of that just make me even louder.

His groan matches mine this time as he sinks a bit lower and my eyes literally roll back at the vibration. _Fuck,_ he’s so good at this.

By the time my length is sliding into his throat I’ve lost all capacity for thoughts that aren’t: _Baz, yes_ and _just like that._ There’s only the feeling of my head brushing against the back of Baz’s throat, again and again as he swallows around me.

Usually we both like it when I fuck up into him, but it’s a bit of an awkward position for that and I can’t quite get the leverage, so I settle for trying to guide his head with my hands in his hair instead; urging him to take me deeper, to move to the rhythm I want.

But Baz likes to be just as much of a brat as I do so, of course, he braces his forearms against my thighs and the seat, hollowing out his cheeks as he pulls off me, as slow as he can.

I can hear how loudly I’m begging for him to stop teasing, but he pulls off completely in response; leaving light kisses along the base of my cock instead. He’s making no effort to hide his smirk; he’s an absolute arsehole. (I love it when he’s like this.) (I think we both accepted long ago that fighting has always turned us both on, and that we may as well use it to our advantage.)

“ _Baz,”_ I growl, “get back to it!”

He wraps his hand around me loosely, running it up and down my length at much too slow a pace.

“Mmm. Never did learn manners did you, you animal?” His breath ghosts over my spit slicked cock and I shiver involuntarily. “I thought you were being good to me?”

I know what he wants—what he wants me to give him—but if he’s going to be a git, he can wait a little longer.

I cup my hand over his chin and pull him to look up at me. His eyelashes are wet from his efforts at deepthroating and I feel my cock twitch at the sight.

“Darling,” I whisper, rubbing my thumb over his plump lips. He blinks up at me, smiling slightly as he pokes his wicked tongue out to lick me there too. “ _Please_ get back to sucking me off?”

Baz rolls his eyes in an attempt to show disapproval of the cheek I just gave him, but I can see he’s fighting back a grin.

“I _could,”_ he murmurs, pulling away to press more kisses along the length of me. He stops when he gets to my head, meeting my eyes and dipping his tongue into my slit to swipe away my pre-cum. I breathe heavily through my nose, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making noise.

His eyebrow lifts to a really fucking devastating angle and I’m done for. 

“What’s in it for me?” he asks, all innocently, as if he isn’t rubbing a finger against my taint and stealing all of the thoughts from my brain.

I squirm a little, mouth clamped, fingers and toes curling from the sensation. 

_“Simon.”_ I do whimper at that; at the sound of my name dripping like velvet from Baz’s sinful mouth. “What’s in it for me?”

I grit my teeth but he just smirks over the head of my cock, pressing his lips sloppily against my frenulum over and over again and I can’t hold back any longer. I’ll give him what he wants. (What _I_ want, all of this show I’m putting on be damned.)

“I’ll let you bite me,” I gasp, “I _want_ you to bite me, Baz.”

Baz growls as he sits up to attack me with a fierce enough kiss that my head thunks back against the headrest. He’s pressed so tightly against my mouth that I literally _feel_ his fangs slide down underneath his top lip. They scrape against me lightly as they breach his bottom lip, and we both moan a little at what’s to come.

I pull back and run my tongue softly over the parts of his fangs I can reach, mimicking his movements from earlier in the restaurant.

“You’re a menace,” he tells me, voice thick with desire, even around his lisp.

“Probably should teach me a lesson,” I tell him, and we both laugh a little at how cheesy that sounded.

Baz raises that eyebrow at me again as he gets back into position, rolling my right leg out more so he has better access to where we both need him to be. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Snow.”

And then Baz does something that I never could have imagined him doing a year ago; he gathers the pool of saliva in his mouth and lets it dribble down over the head of my cock, his lips as pursed as they can be around his fangs.

It’s undignified, and disgusting, and everything Baz pretends not to be, and it’s hot as hell that he lets me see it.

He wraps his hand around my newly slicked cock and begins to move properly, squeezing and twisting and kissing the crease of my thigh, letting his normal teeth graze against my skin and bringing me back to the brink in seconds.

I’m flexing my fingers in his hair, panting nothing but his name—a sure sign that I’m really fucking close—when he bare his fangs. I barely have time to gasp out “ _yes!”_ before he’s sinking them deep into my thigh.

If I thought I felt pleasure before, this feels like a rapture.

* * *

** Baz**

Simon’s voice chokes out the second my venom floods into his system. I watch him out the corner of my eye; his head lolls forward, mouth caught open on a groan he never finished. I love to see how his face relaxes into pleasure; how his cheeks flush and his eyelashes flutter. It reminds me that this is for him, just as much as it is for me.

Snow might not get an orgasm in the typical sense when we do this—although my hand is covered in his cum right now—but he says it’s like nothing he’s ever known. That he’s never felt so connected to me. That it’s more intimate than any blowjob or sexual position we indulge in. That _that_ is worth more than any orgasm.

As I drink deeply from his femoral artery, as his warm, intoxicating blood slides down my throat, as his heartbeat ricochets around my gums...I can’t help but think he’s right. 

We’re both lost to the euphoria and Simon might not be able to make noise right now, but I’m loud enough for the both of us. He told me once that my moans keep him anchored, so I don’t try to stop myself. Sinful noises slip past my lips as I swallow what he’s freely given me; it’s thick and rich and fills me with heat.

I pull back sooner than I would if I was drinking from any other part of him—the life spills out of him so quickly here, and I still get worried. I lick at the incisions, my saliva helping them close. (And because I’d rather take a match to my skin than waste a single drop of Simon Snow’s blood.)

I reach up to push his curls out of his face and he gives me an unsteady smile, eyes still dazed with euphoria, full of love. (I’m sure I’m not much better.)

I lean over into the front seat to grab my wand, spelling the mess away and healing the bite marks properly with a **_Kiss it Better._** I love getting to do this. It makes me feel needed—Simon, trusting me to take care of him in this way. He’s letting me be kind to him and it makes me feel _good._

“Baz,” he mumbles, his hand coming to rest sloppily on my face. I look over at him but I don’t think he actually has anything to say, he just likes saying my name twelve thousand times a day. (I like it, too.)

I lean in to kiss his face while his breathing evens out, rubbing my nose into his cheek because apparently I’m the kind of person who nuzzles now. He laughs and reaches over to run his hand down my chest.

I give him a little longer, delighting in watching him come back to himself slowly, before pulling back to grasp at his boxers and trousers.

“Think you can lift, love?”

He gives me a nod, looking more steady by the minute, and hovers as I try to grapple everything back up. It’s not going well—Snow hits his head again off the car ceiling and my elbow almost puts a dent in the door—and eventually he just laughs and does it himself. I give his forehead a kiss while he refastens his belt.

He tilts his head up to catch me in a proper kiss; gentle, but no less passionate for it.

“I love you, Baz.” He knows I need to hear it. I always do after biting him. (He’s taking care of me, too.)

I lean down and run my nose up his neck to his jaw bone, taking the opportunity to breathe him in. Sliding across to whisper in his ear, “I love you more, Simon.”

Then I pull back to look him in the eyes and tell him what I know he needs to hear, too. “Thank you for tonight. It’s been perfect.”

“It’s alright, I just.” I wait for him to get it out. “I wanted to say thank you, you know. In case I don’t thank you enough.”

“Take me home, Simon. You can finish thanking me there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


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